


Tuesdays

by MagicMarker



Series: Tolkien's Dirty December 2015 [5]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bartender Bard, Blow Jobs, Challenge: Dirty December, Football | Soccer, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sort of anyway, Tolkien's Dirty December, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-06 01:04:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5397101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicMarker/pseuds/MagicMarker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirty December Day 9: Seduction</p>
<p>An overdressed stranger closes down Bard's Bar.  I think you get where I'm going with this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tuesdays

Bard stood behind the bar, absentmindedly wiping a glass dry with one eye on the football game and one eye on the room.  Only a couple of tables were full, and he had one-count-‘em-one person sitting up at the bar, nursing a double-malt for all it was worth.  Fuckin’ Tuesdays.

 

A three-nil loss.  Typical.  His team only played well when he wasn’t able to watch, it seemed.  With a sigh Bard placed the glass where it belonged and picked up another from the small dishwasher.  He flicked his eyes to the overdressed man at the bar, who had spent most of his time there flicking through his Blackberry but now sat upright, looking at the television as well.

 

“What a shame,” he said, as if reciting the weather forecast.  

 

“Uh, yeah.  Sure is.”  Something about the other man rubbed him the wrong way.  He wasn’t sure if it was the way he felt the need to comment when he clearly couldn’t care less, or the way his bushy dark eyebrows seemed mismatched to his silver hair - had he dyed it or something? - but Bard felt oddly on-edge.  “Want another?”

 

An inclination of the head was the only answer.  Apparently words were beneath him as well as football.  Fine, whatever.  He keyed into the ordering system and added the drink to Blondey’s tab, and while he was in there he printed off the checks for the other two tables, as they’d made absolutely no move to order anything else for half an hour now.  He stuffed them into books along with a pen, and made his rounds.  “Whenever you’re ready,” he murmured to each in turn.  “No rush.”  It’s not as if anyone else needed the table.

 

When he returned to the bar, he pulled down a new glass and poured two fingers of scotch, serving it to the man and retrieving the empty glass in the same movement.  Ordinarily he’d have just poured right into the same one, health code be damned, but he had a feeling that Blondey McPinstripe wouldn’t have appreciated it.  At least Tuesdays were short days, and they’d be closing up at midnight.  Only an hour to go.  

 

He made another round to run the cards from the people in the dining room, and felt Blondey’s eyes on him the whole time.  A flush burned up the back of his neck at the thought.  What was he even doing here anyway?  He didn’t care about the football, he wasn’t with anyone else, he wasn’t getting pissed, he wasn’t even talking to Bard at all, like most random people who came to the bar alone.

 

The occupants of the two tables filed out into the night, one after the other, pulling up their hoods and stuffing their fists in their pockets to protect against the winter wind.  Just like that, Bard and Blondey McPinstripe were alone.

 

Apparently this was what he’d been waiting for the whole time, because as Bard bussed the tables down and slid the glasses into the dishwasher, McPinstripe put his phone away and folded his hands in front of him.  “Tell me, Mr. Bowman,” he began.  “Is your bar always so desolate?”

 

Bard stood still, rigid back still turned to McPinstripe.  “How did you know my name, Mister…?”

 

“I needed only watch you key in my order,” he replied breezily.  “It comes up when you first log in.  And it’s Oropherion.  But you may call me Thranduil.”

 

For just a moment, Bard closed his eyes, shoving the bristle of annoyance back down deep. That name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it.  Between that and Oropherion’s general disregard for basic privacy, Bard had to school his voice carefully as he replied, “Well then, Thranduil.  I suppose the answer is ‘yes’ though I _would_ remind you it is a Tuesday, and _most people_ don’t stay out so late on work nights.”

 

Thranduil raised an eyebrow and silently took a sip of scotch.

 

“Look, if you want to meet someone, or whatever, might I suggest you come back on Saturday night?”

 

“I’ve met you,” Thranduil replied.  “I like you.”

 

“You don’t know me well enough to like me.  I’ve _served_ you.  That’s different.”

 

“And what a wonderful job you’ve done,”  Thranduil purred, leaning forward.  “I’ve so enjoyed watching you work.”

 

“Listen,” Bard began, “I really don’t think--”

 

“Why don’t you pour yourself a drink?”  

 

The dishwasher hummed quietly, the only sound as Bard narrowed his eyes at the other man.  The thing was, even as baffling as Thranduil’s presence had been before, it was nothing to how he was behaving now.  Did people really just _do_ that?  Come on to the bartender?

 

“I’m working.”

 

“You aren’t.”  Again, that tone that was so aloof yet brokered no argument.  “I’m the only one here, and I’m not going to require anything more of you tonight that you don’t want to give.”

 

Apparently people did.  People really did just make passes at people while they were trying to work.  Bard wanted to be angry, or at least indignant, but he couldn’t muster it over how secretly pleased he was.  Running a bar and raising three kids single-handedly didn’t really leave much room for dating, and he was fine with that, really.  Mostly.  But it was nice to have been noticed.  A little indulgence couldn’t hurt.  He could play along for a little while.

 

He reached up and took down another low-ball glass, selected his favorite bourbon, and gave himself a healthy serving.  “Cheers,” he muttered, raising it up towards his only guest before taking a sip. The liquid burned as he breathed out, just the way he liked it.  “So I take it you’re not from here?”  

 

“What gives you that idea?”

 

“You don’t sound like you are, and well, you didn’t care about Lake Town losing the match.”

 

“I’m not,” Thranduil answered.  “From here.  I’m in town on business.  And I like Mirkwood.”

 

Ah, figures.  And Bard had been having such a nice time, too.  

 

“Only people who are actually _from_ Mirkwood like Mirkwood,” he scoffed.  “That team has bought their way into the Premier League by poaching players from everywhere else.  Sure, they can win games, but they don’t have any heart.”

 

Thranduil raised an eyebrow.  “Unlike Lake Town, I take it?”

 

“That’s right,”  Bard answered proudly.  “We may be League Two, but we get better every year.   _And_ we’re owned by the whole town!  There’s no rich asshole making critical decisions from on high despite the fact that he knows nothing about football as she is _really played.”_

 

“I see you’re quite passionate about this.”  That Mirkwood fop was smiling.  The fucker thought this was funny.  

 

“I am,” Bard answered grumpily, trying to hide his embarrassment in the bottom of his bourbon.  At least now he had the excuse of the alcohol warming his cheeks.

 

“Oh no, don’t let me stop you.”  Thranduil’s tone was downright predatory as he looked over his glass and added,  “I like a man with a bit of passion.”

 

Bard’s throat went dry and all his blood shot south, heat blossoming there in a rather uncomfortable and completely obvious way.  “It--it doesn’t matter,” he stammered, putting his glass down before he dropped it.  “Nevermind.”

 

What was it about this one?  Bard had had countless attractive men pass through this bar, and sure, a few of them had worn expertly tailored suits.   _Not many of them had made passes at him, so clearly desired him.  Nor had many been quite as attractive._  The thought came unbidden.  Was that why he reacted so strongly?  It’s not like Thranduil was his usual type, by any stretch.  Though he doubted he was Thranduil’s usual type either.

 

“As you like.”  Finishing the last drop of scotch, Thranduil set his glass beside Bard’s and stood up from the bar stool, leaning over the counter.  “I’m going to be frank with you, Mr. Bowman.”

 

“Bard,” he said quickly.

 

“Bard.  As I said.  I am in town on business and will be on my way tomorrow.  You are very attractive,” he ignored Bard’s scoff, “and I would relish the opportunity to get my hands on that body at least once before I leave.”

 

“My children are upstairs,” Bard said a bit more hoarsely than he’d hoped, “sleeping.”

 

“Then we won’t go upstairs.”

 

Bard stood still for a moment, weighing his options, but all he really wanted in the world was to give in to this infuriatingly cocky stranger.  The kids would be fine, right?  They were fast asleep, it was a school night.  What could be the harm?  Decision made, he hit the switch for the outside lights and dimmed the ones inside even further, then all but ran around the counter to lock the front door.

 

Thranduil’s eyes followed him the whole time, a satisfied smile across his lips as he took off his suit jacket and leaned against the bar.  He held out a hand, and when Bard took it, he pulled hard.  Bard stumbled, but Thranduil caught him easily, capturing his mouth in a searing kiss.  His lips moved authoritatively, possessively, and Bard could barely help but go along for the ride.

 

This kind of thing didn’t happen to him.  This kind of thing didn’t happen, period.  Devastatingly handsome strangers did not just show up in his bar and declare their attraction to him; that’s the stuff of Harlequin novels.  Yet Bard found himself kissing back, moving his hips in time with Thranduil’s, twisting his fingers in the fabric of his shirt.  He could taste the scotch on Thranduil’s lips, the alcohol slightly sour but the smoke still sweet.

 

They were still in front of the windows, he realized.  “Come on,” he gasped, pulling Thranduil away from the front, towards a booth by the bathrooms.  The high backs of the benches would hide them from stray passers-by on the street.  

 

Thranduil let himself be moved but as soon as Bard was satisfied with their position he got back to work.  His slender fingers picked at the knot which secured Bard’s apron and he tossed it away, then pulled Bard’s shirt out of his pants and slid his hands up to feel his over-heated skin.  “Mm, perfect,” he murmured before pressing another kiss to Bard’s mouth.

 

Bard groaned, only slightly embarrassed at how easily his body responded.  Already his blood was thrumming, already his heart was racing, and alas, already his erection was growing.  He slotted one leg between Thranduil’s and rocked against his hip, another wave of heat washing over him as he felt the other man’s cock straining against the suit pants.  “Ohh, fuck,” he breathed, closing his eyes as Thranduil mouthed at his neck.  “Oh shit!”

 

“Ssh,” Thranduil scolded gently.  “You’ll have to quiet down if you want those kids of yours to stay in bed.”  He nipped at Bard’s throat, licking broad stripes after to soothe. Then his hands were at Bard’s belt buckle, pulling it loose, unzipping his fly, pushing his pants down.

 

Cock springing free from behind the waistband of his underwear, Bard couldn’t help but palm over the bulge in Thranduil’s pants in return.  Finally he got a hiss out of the man who until then had been so composed.  Encouraged, he did it again and again, stroking over the hard ridge of his cock through the fabric.

 

Without warning, Thranduil pushed Bard down so he fell heavily onto the bench of the booth.  Then, kneeling in front of him, he pulled slow, gentle strokes over Bard’s cock, palm twisting over the head.  The soft touches were too much, not enough, and Bard found himself panting, pushing himself back up to watch.  

 

“Please,” he whispered, and Thranduil gave another one of those cat-like smiles before wordlessly taking Bard’s whole length into his mouth in one swift movement.  He was completely engulfed in wet heat, so sudden that he stuffed his fist in his mouth a bit too late to keep his strangled cry completely quiet.  

 

Thranduil smiled around Bard’s cock, and if that wasn’t the hottest thing Bard had seen in years.  Then with a satisfied hum, he began to move.  Every pass over his cock made it slicker, hotter, impossibly harder.  As he bobbed up and down, he swirled his tongue over the vein running along the bottom of Bard’s prick, around the head, over and over again.

 

Bard was seeing stars.  His fist was still in his mouth, he couldn’t move it or he’d scream.  The whole situation was already so ludicrous, and now this random posh stranger was giving him the best blow job he’d ever had in his life.  A coil of pleasure was steadily tightening in his gut.  There was no way he would last long.

 

One of Thranduil’s hands was kneading his thigh gently, but the other-- Bard groaned -- the other was opening his pants, pulling his cock out, jerking it eagerly. That coil wound tighter and Bard had to lean back down onto the bench to compose himself.  But it was such a pretty sight, he had to watch, so he raised back up onto his elbows.  

 

Thranduil’s cock was like the rest of him, long and slender and perfect, and it absolutely did not belong here in the back of Bard’s Bar.  He paused briefly to spit in his hand, and when his fist slid back down his length he mirrored the movement with his mouth over Bard, moaning.  

 

The vibrations sent another wave of pleasure over Bard and he gripped the edge of the table next to him for all he was worth.  Thranduil’s strokes grew faster, and the slide of his tongue and lips over Bard’s dick grew sloppier, and suddenly Bard found himself tapping rapidly on Thranduil’s shoulder.

 

“Th-- Thrandu--oh fuck I’m about to-- I’m--,” he whimpered, trying so hard to hold off, short nails biting into the soft finish on the table.

 

Rather than pulling away, Thranduil sucked him down, and when Bard felt the back of his throat, he was done for.  That coil inside him sprang free, and he bucked his hips one last time as he came, blinding and hot, down Thranduil’s throat.  

 

As soon as he was done, Thranduil pulled off him with a smack and leaned his forehead on Bard’s knee.  Just a few more short strokes and he followed after, shooting white stripes over the floor with a quiet sigh.  He sat there for a moment while he caught his breath, then rose to his feet.  He took a roll of silverware off the table, letting the napkin unfurl and the cutlery clatter to the table, and cleaned himself up a bit before he tucked his dick and his shirt back into his pants.

 

Bard still sat on the bench, eyes wide.  It had happened.  That mess on the floor was proof: it had really happened and this wasn’t some weird fever dream his brain had made up to cope with his team’s most recent loss, or whatever.  Crisp footsteps broke through his fog, and he raised his head to see Thranduil open his wallet and leave some bills on the bar.  

 

“Thank you, Bard,” he said smoothly.  “For the drinks and the...entertainment.  I hope you have a nice rest of your week.”

 

“Um, thank you?” Bard answered, still not completely in control of himself.  “Come back...soon?”

 

“Perhaps I will,” Thranduil replied, pulling the cuffs of his jacket back into place.  He wrapped a scarf around his neck and slipped into his overcoat, then let himself out the front door.

 

Bard let himself rest a moment more before taking the soiled napkin and wiping up the floor.  He’d mop up the whole place tomorrow morning.  Slowly he zipped his pants back up and re-locked the front door, armed the security system, and went to close out his register for the night.  When he picked up the cash Thranduil had left, a small piece of glossy cardstock lay underneath the bills.  A business card?  Bard turned the lights back up so he could read it.

 

**_Thranduil Oropherion_ **

_C.E.O., Oropherion Enterprises_

_Owner, President, and General Manager, Mirkwood Mustangs_

 

“You have got to be kidding me,” Bard muttered, flipping it over to reveal the green and bronze logo of the most hated team in association football.  Shaking his head, he stuffed it into his pocket, closed out Thranduil’s bill, and emptied the register into the envelope for the lockbox.  He went through all the motions, locking the cash away in the office, securing the back door, and walking up the stairs to the apartment where his children lay sleeping.  Hopefully.  

 

It didn't help him make any more sense of what had happened.  He had just had his cock in the mouth of one of the richest men in the country, and no one would ever believe him.

 

Fuckin’ Tuesdays.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Well, filling Dirty December prompts has gotten a bit more sporadic as the month wears on and my job has been unexpectedly busy. Some of them have been really great though, so I may come back and fill them late. I'd love to know if there's anything in particular you'd like to see!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this one! Let me know via kudos or comments, or you can find me [here on tumblr](http://cersei-the-truth-bombardier.tumblr.com).


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